


Intravenous

by Zelbess



Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, Drug Use, M/M, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelbess/pseuds/Zelbess
Summary: Roxas is a drug addict and Axel is dealing with devastating loss, and both are struggling to find their purpose in life as they try to escape their pasts by any means necessary. One night their lives fatefully intertwine, but there is a very thin line between love and obsession, and, ultimately, letting go isn't easy when the root of the problem is settled deep into their veins.
Relationships: Axel/Roxas (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	1. Ornithology

**Author's Note:**

> It's the end of the world, everything is crazy, time to write about my favorite Disney/ Final Fantasy crossover characters committing sin in such a way that is simultaneously pretentious and sardonic so that no one knows if I'm taking it seriously or not. Listen, we've all got to stay busy somehow.
> 
> P.S. I write in my downtime so who knows when updates will happen. I'm always just as surprised as you are when they do.

Roxas looks down at his checked canvas slip-ons, marred with mud from the ten minute trudge from his mom's house in the rain, as he taps out an off-kilter rhythm onto the scuffed wooden floor as the others, familiar and not, trickle in and join him in the surrounding metal folding chairs. No one says anything to each other because no one actually wants to be there and the collective indignation is palpable, so, like Roxas, the others fidget; picking at cuticles, twiddling thumbs, pulling off sweater lint, twirling hair, scratching at cheeks and arms, avoiding eye contact with each other. Roxas, still damp, keeps his hood up and slouches forward. This is only his third meeting and he has made it this far without uttering a single word and he hopes to keep it this way. After all, he just as to _attend_ the meetings, not necessarily participate in them.

At 7 o'clock on the dot according to the analog clock on the wall, the meeting leader arrives with his travel mug filled with some holistic multi-level marketing tea and his canvas bag covered in tacky pins. He sets his bag on the folding table next to the Mr. Coffee machine and takes his seat. "Good morning," he greets with a wide grin. He's obviously disingenuous and the fake puppy-eyed pity he gives the attendees makes Rojas's blood curdle. "Who would like to lead today's prayer?"

Narcotics Anonymous. It's definitely better than the alternative of a rehab center but having to walk to the plaza presbyterian church every other weekday morning is its own brand of humiliation. As the addicts share their cliché addict experiences, Roxas thinks about the irony in the fact that this church used to be a party supply store when he was a kid, and he distinctly remembers getting a Halloween costume there once. That year, he was Dr. Seuss's Thing 2. His sister, of course, had the honor of being Thing 1 by merit of being an hour older than him. Mom tinged their blue using Kool-Aid powder and the two of them spent the night smelling like blue-raspberry lemonade and bickering about who got the most candy. Their blonde hair held blue undertones for the first few days of November.

"Roxas," the meeting leader says suddenly, pulling him out his memories, "You haven't shared or even introduced yourself yet."

Roxas hates that he is addressed by name, but the only reason the meeting leader knows it is because he has to sign the paper at the end of every meeting that verifies his attendance as part of his mandatory outpatient treatment program. "I'm more of a listener," Roxas unconvincingly deadpans.

"Yeah, that's fine, but we encourage everyone to introduce themselves and share at least once. You don't have to worry about judgement, Roxas. This is a safe space. Besides," he gives a coy half-smile that's almost predatory in nature, "What better way to show me you're here than to contribute to the discussion?"

Roxas glares at him before standing up from his chair with enough force to make it scrape against the floor, wondering if maybe rehab would've been the better, least-humiliating option. "Name's Roxas," he announces half-heartedly, "I'm twenty-two and I'm a drug addict, or whatever."

There is a chorus of an equally unenthusiastic customary 'hi Roxas' from the other dead-eyed attendees.

"Would you like to share any of your experiences with us?" The meeting leader asks, folding his hands and placing them in his lap like a kid getting ready for story time. Roxas focuses on the fact he is wearing dad jeans despite being no older than late twenties, and even worse, he's got flip-flops on, too.

Roxas quickly sits back down and stuffs his hands into his jacket pocket. Sure, he's done some questionable things in life, but at least he never dressed like a loser. "Not really," he tells him.

The meeting leader clucks his tongue. "Alright then, who wants to go next?"

By the time Roxas gets home and peels his wet jacket and muddy shoes off, his mom is just getting up and is in the kitchen making coffee in her pajamas and pink terrycloth robe. "How'd it go?" She asks him without any initial niceties, not even a 'hello' or 'good morning' or 'welcome home'.

Without acknowledging her question, Roxas joins her in the kitchen and heads straight for the fridge to get out the carton of orange juice.

"You better get a glass," she says in her typical warning mom-tone. His mom knows his habits too well. Roxas listens and gets a cup just to avoid the nagging if he didn't.

"Are you hungry? I can make you a couple eggs. Are you in a sunny-side-up or a scrambled mood today?"

"I'm alright," he says, "No eggs."

"You need to eat, Rox." She dumps three packets of artificial sweetener into her 'World's Best Mom' mug (a gift from his sister, no doubt) before turning to face him, eyeing him up and down, starting with his disheveled bedhead and ending with his mismatched socks. "You've lost a lot of weight. Your jeans barely even fit you anymore. Look, they're sagging off your hips."

After filling his cup to the brim with juice, Roxas puts the carton away and nudges the fridge closed with his foot. "Orange juice has plenty of vitamins," he says.

His mom shakes her head in disdain but knows she's fighting a losing battle. Roxas has been stubborn since he was in utero, and as long as he isn't shooting up or getting into trouble, she knows she has to take what she can get with him. He's home, he's safe, he's getting help. That's all she can ask for.

Roxas comes from, for all intents and purposes, a normal family. Middle-class. Average. Loving. He has a stay-at-home mom who drives a hatchback, a white-collar dad who calls him 'sport', and a twin sister who goes to community college and is saving herself for marriage. They live in a good neighborhood, eat dinner together, and have tons of corny family photos lining the living room wall. They even have an obese elderly beagle named Snoopy that has to use special doggy stairs to get up on the sofa.

Most people would be happy with such a simple benign existence, but Roxas has spent the past decade filled with disenchantment and a restlessness that couldn't be tamed. He tried sports, relationships, rebellion, but nothing sated him, his trauma, or his need for a raison d'etre. He's been a ticking time bomb since puberty, and everything now was just an inevitability.

Up in his room, he abandons his juice on the nightstand and gets back into his unmade bed without bothering to get undressed. His bed is the same bed he's had since the bunkbed he and his sister shared was retired and they were given separate rooms. Naminé moved out a couple years ago now and her bedroom was reverted to a guest room, but Roxas never flew the coop so his bedroom is mostly untouched by time. He still has up posters of scantily clad women and foreign cars, his Mickey Mouse bedsheets are still in regular rotation, and his high school chemistry textbook he never returned is still on the floor by his cluttered desk.

As soon as Roxas dozes off, his cell phone buzzes. He groggily grabs it off his nightstand and the bright screen nearly blinds him. It's Hayner and he wants to know if he wants to hang out later. Roxas quickly texts back saying he has other plans. It's a lie but he is too embarrassed to face his old friends after everything that's happened. After all, he did ditch them for drug dealers.

It's been a few weeks now since he died on Larxene's bathroom floor and he still hasn't heard from her. In fact, he hasn't heard from any of them. No texts from Xaldin or calls from Xigbar or Facebook pokes from Demyx. He wonders if they even know he's alive. He wonders if they even care. But deep down, he knows dealers, addicts, and the company they keep are rarely ever really your friends. He threw away the people he's known nearly his whole life, the people who know him better than his own flesh and blood does, in favor of ragtag burnouts who never gave a shit about him to begin with.

Roxas doesn't believe in karma but this is definitely his just deserts.

He tosses his phone to the side and lays flat on his back so he can look up at his ceiling fan. The dust-covered blades spin clockwise and he follows them with his eyes until he gets dizzy. His days now are dull, he just mindlessly wastes time alone in his room. He almost feels like he's barely living. He almost wishes he stayed dead.

Roxas doesn't remember much from that night, but he knows he was resuscitated in the ambulance by paramedics who gave him some naloxone and a few rounds of CPR. He was just about to check in with the receptionist at hell's front desk when he took a breath on his own and started retching, writhing, and puking on himself shortly after.

Roxas wants a cigarette real bad but has no money to buy a pack. His parents confiscated his wallet when he got home from the hospital so anything he wants or needs has to be requested through them. He feels like a little kid again; curfews, check-ins, explicit permissions, the whole nine yards. His mom even peeks into his room in the middle of the night to make sure he's still in his bed.

Hayner responds to his hangout decline, "Alright man, take care" and there's a twisting in Roxas's empty stomach that can only be attributed to guilt. He sighs and rolls over to face the wall, realizing just how alone he is.

The hard part is over. He detoxed in the hospital. All the pain and vomiting and thrashing is done with. All that remains now is the dull aching in his veins and the tracks on his arm and the disappointment of his family. Addiction is funny in that just about everyone thinks it won't happen to them and even as you're eagerly sticking needles into yourself just to get through the day you're thoroughly convinced you can stop whenever. Sweaty, shaky fingers push down on the plunger of the syringe as you're kneeled on the cold tile of a bathroom floor and it's as normal to you as drinking coffee in the morning. That's the point Roxas got to, and it was a rapid declination that started less than a year ago. All it took was, "Hey Roxas, you ever try smack?" and before he knew it he was sucking dick for a spoon before work and selling his laptop on Craigslist for well below its worth for enough cash to get a quick fix.

The hard part is over, but it doesn't make this part any easier.

There's a knock on his bedroom door but before he can say anything they let themselves in.

"Heya, sport," his dad greets. "I'm heading to the supermarket in a bit. Want to go for a ride?"

"Not really," Roxas replies without even looking at him.

"Are you sure? We can grab a bite for lunch afterwards, just you and me. Getting out for a bit might be good for you."

His dad has been trying really hard and Roxas knows this. He also knows that he hasn't been a good son. He's never been a good son. "I'm really tired, dad," he says, "Maybe later."

His dad doesn't let his disappointment show. Like his wife, he knows Roxas is stubborn and is just happy he's still alive. "Alright, Rox. If you change your mind, let me know. Love you."

"Yeah," Roxas says, trying not the let the words fester, "Love you too, dad."

* * *

Axel brings the cigarette to his chapped lips and pulls hard before letting the smoke billow out his nose and the sides of his mouth. Back when he was thirteen, he'd steal smokes from his gran and do this in the bathroom mirror past bedtime because it made him feel like a dragon, and being a dragon felt much more empowering than being the kid with a dead mom who had to go live with his emotionally exhausted grandmother. Being a dragon was the mildest of his coping mechanisms. And his gran never did wonder where her cigarettes were disappearing to.

Xion, perched next to him on the stone wall at the entrance of their community college, crinkles her nose and pushes up the sleeves of her oversized jumper. "How can you smoke those?" She asks. Her bunched up sleeves sag back down. "Reds are for chain smokers in their 50s. Smoke something trendy, grandpa. You ever try clove cigs?"

Axel exhales the rest of the smoke and taps his cigarette off, letting the ash fall and catch the wind and fly away. "Clove cigs, really? Should I get a can of PBR and shave the sides of my head, too? Should I start collecting vinyl reprints?"

"Sure," she snarks back, "And we can start going to slam poetry nights at the speakeasy while wearing ironic t-shirts. I want mine to say 'Bigfoot is real and he tried to eat my ass' in comic sans."

He jams the cig onto the stone to extinguish it and casually flicks the butt to the ground. "I bet Bigfoot would be a really passionate lover."

Xion snorts. "Yeah, a gentle giant, real tender. Great tongue dexterity, I bet."

"I'm going to tell your boyfriend that you're lusting over cryptids performing annilingus," he teases, throwing his long arm over her shoulder. She playfully shoves him off.

The only thing Axel finds tolerable about life these days is his lighthearted friendship with Xion.

Everyone he's ever loved is dead. Mom is dead. Gran is dead. Ventus is dead. The goldfish he won at the county fair a couple months ago is dead. He's moving on, sure, but just barely. Distraction is his only hope, and that's the only reason he hasn't dropped out of school and given up on the bullshit bachelor's degree he was persuaded to pursue. Writing papers is more constructive than binge drinking and popping aftermarket oxys while watching Frasier reruns, he figures. So he still shows up and he still pretends everything is okay.

As the two of them hop off the stone wall and casually stroll onto campus side-by-side, continuing their banter, Axel knows why this is the only successful friendship he's had in years: Xion doesn't know anything about his past. She doesn't know about his mom or Ventus. She doesn't know the extent of his self-destruction. They met a semester ago in their philosophy course and bonded over a shared hatred of Schopenhauer, and philosophical views were as deep as they ever got. Now they just meet up on the days they both have class and loiter and talk shit and it's the only time Axel feels normal.

Or rather, something akin to what he imagines normalcy is like, because Axel's life has never been normal. Not even a little bit.

The orange and brown leaves that litter the ground are nice and stiff and they both step very deliberately to crunch them under their shoes. Axel used to love fall, but now he hates it. When Ventus died, he took most of Axel's joy in life with him, so now the little things like crunchy leaves and autumnal breezes hold no value, no charm. Everything sucks.

Xion whines about her anthropology professor while Axel takes out another Marlboro, contemplating texting Larxene.

It's been a while since he really let loose.

Xion and Axel's journey ends at the quad, where Xion's boyfriend is waiting cross-armed for her by the humanities building. The guy's always seemed to have a distaste for Axel, and Axel just wants to set the record straight that he's not and that all his romantic prospects were now buried—literally and figuratively—but instead he silently nods an acknowledgement at him as Xion leaves his side.

"See ya later alligator," she turns on her heel and tells him. He waves and feels like a weekend dad dropping his kid off on Sunday.

The loneliness makes up his mind for him as he pulls out his phone right as they disappear into the bulding together. He just needs a little bit of something to take the edge off. He's not falling back into old habits.

Ventus, bouncing around in whatever post-life plane of existence, will forgive him. Or at least, Axel likes to think he will. After all, Ventus owes him big time after breaking the promise he made him all those years ago.

* * *

"Hey, mom. Hey, dad. Hey, Roxas." Naminé greets as she walks into the house. She kneels to scratch under Snoopy's chin, he'd been eagerly waiting for her by the door when he heard her Prius pull into the driveway. "Hey, Snoopadoop."

In the living room, her mom gives her a hug, her dad tenderly ruffles her hair, Roxas indifferently grunts in her direction, and Snoopy wags his tail.

Naminé lives about a twenty-minute drive away in an apartment she shares with three other girls from school but she still makes time to come home and eat dinner with the family and help mom in the kitchen. The two of them have always been really close and it makes Roxas bitter to know he comes second place. And after overdosing and becoming essentially an invalid that needs constant supervision, he doesn't doubt he's been knocked down to third place, below the geriatric dog.

Roxas does love his sister, of course. She's a nice, docile girl who's never done any wrong; a quiet goody-two-shoes who likes to volunteer teaching art classes for troubled kids and who always rolls down her window to give the addled panhandlers off the freeway a dollar or two. She constantly sends him inspirational quotes and pictures of cute kittens through text and has never judged him for the dumb shit he does. But, even though Roxas loves her, he doesn't particularly like her. They have nothing in common aside from genetics and a birthday, and it irks Roxas to no end that she'll forever be the golden child.

It irks Roxas that everything bad only happened to him.

After taking her sandals off and setting her purse down, Naminé joins him on the sofa. "How're you doing?" She asks him, and it's a genuine question because she cares and it makes Roxas clench his teeth until his jaw hurts.

"I'm fine," he spits, "Don't I look fine?"

Unfazed by his attitude, she remains placid. "Your skins looks great," She gently runs her fingers through his disheveled spikes, "You need a haircut, though. You're starting to look like a Chia Pet." She lets out a soft laugh at her own joke.

Roxas swats her hand away. "I do not."

"Do to."

"Do _not_."

When they were small, people always gushed about how lucky their mom was to have such beautiful children; her set of storybook blonde-haired, blue-eyed twins with rounded cheeks and pouty lips, always dressed in color-coordinated outfits from OshKosh B'gosh and babyGap. Naminé still looks essentially the same as she did when she was three; she still has her optimism and naivete, still dresses in pastels, still has her platinum ringlets if she lets her hair air-dry, and she's still someone their parents can be proud of. Meanwhile, Roxas looks almost nothing like the bright-eyed boy from the faded photographs. His hair darkened, chronic exhaustion settled into deep pockets beneath his eyes, and faded scars dot his jawline and chin from his bout of bad acne during adolescence that he'd incessantly pick at until they bled and scabbed and bled again. People don't stop them to tell their mom how lucky she is anymore.

Over some sort of multicolored casserole that mom found a recipe for on Pinterest, the four of them eat dinner in relative silence. Roxas knows the awkwardness is his fault and he knows the minute he gets up from the table the idle family conversations will begin. He pushes the food around on his plate with his fork and doesn't look up. He hasn't eaten in days but his stomach doesn't growl and his appetite is nonexistent. He's just waiting for his body to shut down and eat itself inside out.

"Do you like it?" His mom asks him. She knows he's not eating it.

He doesn't answer but Naminé says, "It's delicious, mom."

Looking down at the cheesy noodles on his plate, Roxas wonders _why_ the bad things only happened to him. What deity did he spurn? What mirror did he break?

He is, as usual, the first one up from the table. He goes into the kitchen to scrape his full plate off into the trash and rinse it and put it in the dishwasher. Exactly as suspected, he hears the chattering begin in the dining room so he lingers for longer than necessary by the sink. They talk about some TV show, some sale at a department store, the prospect of buying Snoopy special doggy booties so he doesn't slip on the tile and dislocate a hip.

Instead of going back to the dining room and ruining normal family interaction, Roxas decides he'll occupy himself by taking out the trash and he heads out the side door with the half-full garbage bag slung over his shoulder. He drops the bag in the trashcan and takes a moment, leaning against the vinyl siding of the house. He buries his fingernails into his palms and hunches over, involuntarily heaving. He _really_ wants a cigarette, among other things.

There's flapping and a series of twitters. Roxas straightens up and perched on the fence right in front of him is a beautiful bright red bird. Roxas holds his breath and tries not to move so that he doesn't scare it away. The cardinal sidesteps and bounces back and forth from picket to picket, eyeing him warily, as it chirps and sings. The cold weather is encroaching, birds have already begun their migration, and soon this bird will be gone, too. Roxas wonders if it'll come back to his neighborhood in the spring or if it will wind up elsewhere.

The side door swings open and the cardinal immediately takes off. Roxas lets out the breath he was holding. "There you are," his mom says in relief, clutching her chest, "Wanted to make sure you were still here. You had me worried."

When Roxas doesn't say anything—doesn't even acknowledge her existence—she ducks back inside with a soft sigh and closes the side door. Roxas looks at the spot where the bird was.

Back in his room, after Naminé had gone home and his parents retired to bed, Roxas wonders what the point of all this is. What kind of life is he living? He's twenty-two, this should be his prime. Instead he's under constant supervision and mandated to go to narcotics anonymous meetings at a plaza church at the ass-crack of dawn. His parents don't trust him, his old friends pity him, his new friends abandoned him, he's all alone in this world. He feels like he's rotting, festering. Where is he going in life?

Sitting on the edge of his bed, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, he looks at his phone, and, like an answer to his prayers, courtesy of god himself, he gets a text notification. It's from Larxene, of all people.

Like a heroin-dealing angel: 'been a while. come on by tomorrow night'.

Time stands still as his heartbeat thumps in his ears; an orchestral drum beat that radiates down his spine. There's a stirring in his veins, an itch in the crook of his elbow. It's been weeks. Sure, he was upset that it took this long to hear from any of them, but then again, he didn't exactly reach out either. Roxas didn't know the protocol behind contacting someone whose floor you died on. Overdosing seemed like the kind of thing to get you placed on a trap house blacklist.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard on the screen as he tries to come up with a response.

He is clean now. The cravings are there but the necessity isn't.

He thinks about his mom, about the devastation and heartbreak on her face when she showed up to the hospital after getting the call at 4am. He thinks about his dad, and how hard he tries to be there for him even when all he does is push him away. He thinks about Naminé, the golden child who's actually going places in life. He thinks about Hayner, Pence, and Olette, the friends he's had since grade school that he abandoned when he realized it was a lot more exhilarating to party and do drugs all the time. He thinks about his cousin, Seifer.

All these thoughts swirl in his head until they're a slurry.

Can things ever go back to the way they were?

Roxas doubts it. He starts typing back his response to Larxene, his phone buzzing with every key press.

He remembers something the meeting leader said: 'when you reach rock bottom, you can only go up from there,' but what if he doesn't want to go up? What if he can't? If he's already at the bottom, then what's the big deal? A little cement in his veins won't make him sink any lower.

* * *

He still remembers where to go.

It's been a while since Axel's been to Larxene's apartment, but the right turn then second left then first right then third left are muscle memory, forever embedded in the back of his mind for safekeeping. It's not a nice neighborhood, but no one expects it to be. There's packs of stray mutts, potholes, unfinished construction, waterlogged curbside couches, drug deals in daylight and kids speeding by on stolen Huffys past sundown. The apartment block is a dreary three-story grey cube with window bars and loitering grifters who stare down Axel as he parks his gran's old clunky station wagon into an open guest spot.

As the car idles, he starts to have second thoughts. He doesn't have a lot of money left, his small inheritance is almost depleted and part-timing at Chili's isn't bringing in enough income to rely on. He could just go home and drink the rest of the cheap merlot sitting in his fridge next to Tueday's takeout and maybe have a cry while scrolling through the camera roll on his phone, or maybe even start that developmental psychology essay he's been putting off. He still has 4 more seasons of Frasier left. Everything else he could possibly be doing on a Friday night is a better option than this, and yet, with a heavy exhale, he takes the keys out of the ignition and musters the courage to continue his mission.

Larxene lives on the first floor in an end apartment. He raps twice on the door with the back of his hand and waits while whoever is on the other side looks through the peephole and undoes the four locks. The person who answers the door is the kid he remembers is good at guitar, but his name eludes him.

"Hey, buddy," Axel greets. "Larxene around?"

The kid looks behind his shoulder and then looks back forward, leaning in closer. "Depends. Who's asking?"

"Axel," he deadpans. He clearly wasn't remembered but he couldn't really fault a druggy he hasn't seen in two years to remember him by name.

"Axel," the kid repeats.

"Yep. A-X-E-L. Axel. We've met before."

A shrill woman's voice on the other side of the door calls out, "He's good, Demmy. Let him in."

Demyx. Axel remembers his name now.

Demyx steps aside and beckons Axel in. These are low-income apartments but you could never tell by walking into Larxene's unit. The first thing you see when you walk in is leather furniture and a 65-inch flatscreen with a surround sound system and a quartz coffee table sitting on top of a cow skin rug. Larxene is sitting on the couch with her fluffy robe swathed around like some sort of crack house empress. Next to her are a couple other familiar faces; Patchy the Pirate and Dreadlocks, which, of course, isn't what is written on their birth certificates but Axel was never very good with names so he relies on personal taxonomy.

"Whoa whoa whoa, look who came crawling back," Patchy says with a smirk and a mischievous glimmer in his one eye. It darts around the room performatively. "Oh, hey, where's the missus?"

Larxene jams her elbow into his flank. "Don't be a dick, Xigbar," she hisses. "Come, Axel, I missed you dearly." She pats the cushion next to her.

Axel never considered Larxene and her crew to be friends. They had a business relationship and that's it. Get in, get out. He was never one to stick around and hang, but tonight he was lonely, and even though Patchy wanted to make fun of his dead fiancé, he was so desperate for company that he was willing to put up with it. "Alright," Axel says, accepting the spot he was offered.

Dreadlocks, sitting opposite him, squints his eyes in his direction. "I forget, are you the dude who loves crystal?"

"He doesn't do hard stuff anymore," Larxene answers for him, almost mockingly, "Especially not meth. He's a psych student. He's been popping pain pills like a housewife in a bad marriage." Axel opens his mouth to ask how she knows that, but she explains before he can, "I know everything, Axel. I'm very sorry about Ven, by the way."

He clears his throat. "Yeah, thanks," he flatly grumbles. He had brought Ventus around a few times in the past, so it was inevitable that he would be brought up in conversation. He mentally prepared himself for it beforehand.

"Anyway, you have fantastic timing. We're going to have some fun tonight," she says, steering the subject into a less depressing direction, since talking about dead significant others can really ruin a vibe.

Demyx plops down on the floor by their feet with his guitar in his lap. "Oh yeah, isn't Roxas coming over?"

That name isn't at all familiar to Axel, but the impish grin Larxene makes at the mention of it piques his interest.

"Yes, dear little Roxas is coming. Oh, how I _missed_ that pint-sized booger."

Not picking up on the cruel woman's sarcasm, Demyx looks excited. "I missed Roxas, too. I'm glad he's okay."

"All thanks to you of course, deary," she tells him and he beams. "Go wait by the door, he should be here soon." Demyx is naive and loyal, the perfect companion for a drug dealer, so he listens without another word. As soon as he's out of earshot, Larxene leans into Axel. "Kid owes a shit ton of money," she tells him in a whisper. "He used to hang around a lot but he can't hang with the big leagues. OD'd on the bathroom floor the last time he was here, so _very_ tragic. But a debt is a debt, you understand."

Axel isn't stupid. He knows how the world works. "Are you going to kill him?" He asks, only half-seriously.

"Of course not. But Xaldin and Xigbar are going to have some words with him and, well, they can be very persuasive. I just didn't want to tell Demyx because Demyx is very fond of him, he's the one who first brought him around."

"I never did like that stuck-up pretty boy," Xigbar grumbles. "Thankfully he didn't talk much. A very mild-mannered dope fiend, I'd say."

With a laugh, Xaldin adds, "Gives great head, though."

"Poor kid," Axel says, but he doesn't mean it. He doesn't care enough to.

Larxene leans back into him, getting way too close for comfort. "You know, the boys could probably use an extra set of hands. I'm sure school and life have been stressful lately, Axel." She trails a long fingernail down the side of his neck. "What do you say? Want to take out some of that aggression?"

Axel's not particularly violent. Not anymore, at least. He grew out of his aggressive phase in high school. But he can't deny the temptation of pummeling some waste of space heroin addict to make himself feel better about all the misgivings in his life.

"How big is this dude?" Axel asks with a quirked brow. He's admittedly slacked on his workout regime lately and has been nosediving into the realm of skinny-fat with his drinking and constant consumption of chicken tenders from work, so he needs to make sure he's not going to be embarrassed by some spaz on smack.

Larxene barks out a laugh and pats his thigh. "Don't worry, he's tiny. Even you can take him. I'm just trying to have a little fun here. Tell you what, I'll sweeten the deal." She reaches into her robe pocket and pulls out a baggie of powder. "A bump on me, free of charge. I'm very good to my friends. And we are friends, right, Axel?"

Back in the day, Axel's drug of choice was coke. On Fridays he'd swing by Larxene's and pick up a gram for he and Ventus. They'd spend the weekend doing lines and fucking like animals, and by Monday, it was back to business as usual. He wasn't an addict. He's better than that. Smarter than that. Yet, Axel's throat tickles, his heart rate increases. It's been so long.

"Yeah," he says, "Sure."

* * *

Sneaking out is easy. It's scrounging up enough change to afford a bus pass that's hard. Before, he had a car; a nice white sedan with cream-colored leather seats that his parents co-signed the lease for. But getting hooked on drugs meant the car went back to the dealership and now Roxas is left with two modes of transport outside of hoofing it: his skateboard and the city bus.

Larxene lives in a neighborhood on the other side of town, the side of town his parents actively avoid. Roxas, running on close to no nutrients, vitamins, or minerals for the past several weeks, would undoubtedly collapse if he walked or rode more than a couple miles, so the bus is necessary if he wants to go anywhere that isn't in his direct vicinity. He finds a couple quarters in a kitchen drawer and a nickel and dime on his desk. He finds a crunched up single in a pair of jeans he hasn't washed in months. As he tiptoes through the house, sticking his hand between couch cushions and turning over vases, he starts to feel discouraged, but the fantasy of heroin-induced euphoria once again takes over. He starts getting desperate, and then remembers the ceramic lamb in Naminé's old room. He tiptoes back upstairs.

His parents insist on hanging onto everything their precious art prodigy makes so the gaudy ceramic lamb Naminé painted in a grade school art class was spared from garage sales and dumpsters for over fifteen years and now has a permanent residence on the guest room dresser. Roxas has no idea if any money has even been put into the slot on its back but he knows it's worth investigating.

When he gets to the bedroom, he eyes the lamb like a wolf eyes its prey. He crosses the room to pick it up and give it a shake and, much to his delight, he hears coins rattling around inside just begging for liberation. Roxas repeatedly turns the lamb over to find a way to get the coins out but finds nothing. Without thinking it through, he swiftly strikes the lamb against the dresser and breaks its head off. He lets out an audible gasp when, along with some small coins, there's a rolled up ten-dollar bill sticking out of its neck hole. He takes the cash and abandons the decapitated lamb on the bed.

The closest bus stop is a couple blocks away, but Roxas opts to go to a further one, just in case his parents notice he's gone and come looking for him. He pays for his bus pass, collects his change, and sits right behind the driver after stuffing everything into his pocket. His body trembles in excitement as he gets closer. All sense of reason escapes him.

He gets off at his stop, nods thanks at the driver because manners have since been drilled into him, and he begins the walk through Larxene's neighborhood. He should've been wary about walking, especially since as a skinny white kid who barely scrapes 5'4, he is an easy target, but tonight he is fearless. And he knows, as he gets closer and closer, the eagerness he feels isn't for his friends. It was never about them, was it?

The grey apartment building is like an oasis in the desert and he's a man crawling on his hands and knees in the sand plagued by dehydration. He almost has to stop himself from sprinting to Larxene's apartment door. He takes a moment to compose himself, taking a deep breath, before continuing.

* * *

Axel knows angels aren't real. He knows there's no spirits, no ghosts, no zombies, no corporeal souls that walk the earth post-mortem. When you die, you die. That's it. No heaven, no hell, no weird limbo dimension. Death is final. He _knows_ this.

So why is his dead fiancé standing in the doorway of his drug dealer's apartment?

Axel's heart is fluttering like it's going to fly out of his chest cavity and his mind is going a mile a minute as he tries to process what's going on. Ventus is dead. Axel saw his lifeless body, he attended the funeral, he cried gallons of tears, so how is Ventus here, in Larxene's apartment on a Friday night, like he hadn't killed himself almost two years ago?

Demyx is talking to Ventus like they're old pals, putting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him inside. Larxene is condescendingly crooning something to him. Xigbar and Xaldin are laughing at a joke no one else heard. Axel just silently gapes.

Ventus looks skinny, tired, pale. He's dressed diferent than usual; looking more like some emo kid who never grew up rather than the sunny California surfer boy Axel thought he'd spend the rest of his life with. But other than that, he looks just as he remembers him looking; the haphazard blonde spikes, the short stature, the pouty lips, the sapphire eyes.

"Axel, this is Roxas," Larxene says.

But that's not right. This is Ventus, not Roxas.

"Hey," Ventus unenthusiastically greets him, like he isn't back from the dead and addressing his high school sweetheart.

Finally mustering the ability to speak, Axel spits, "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Through her fake teeth-bearing grin, Larxene asks, "What do you mean, Axel?"

"This is... How... Why..." So many thoughts and questions want to pour out of his mouth at once. He stares at Ventus with wide eyes. "You're supposed to be dead."

"C'mon man, not cool," Demyx says, his brows furrowing together. "He overdosed once, so what. No need to be a dick."

"It's whatever," Ventus flippantly shrugs. "Never seen you before," he continues, "Do I know you or something?"

"Don't mind Axel," Larxene tells him with a dismissive wave of her hand. "The most important thing is you're back. And, guess what, Roxy? I have a surprise for you." She pats her pockets. "Oh, damn. Xiggy, do you remember where I put Roxas's surprise?"

"I believe so," he replies with a devilish smirk. "C'mon kid," he tells him as he gets up off the couch, "You're in for a real treat."

Ventus follows him out the living room and Xaldin gets up to join them. Larxene nudges Axel, "Go," she mouths. But Axel is still trying to figure out what exactly is going on. She gets close again, "You got your taste, now you follow through. _Go_."

"I don't understand," Axel admits. His throat his dry. His nose burns. "Why? Why is he here?"

Larxene looks at him like he's stupid. "There's no way that little bump made you brain dead," she says with a melodramatic roll of her eyes. She looks over at naive Demyx to see if he's been paying them any attention, but he isn't. Instead he's idly strumming something on his guitar while he watches the muted sitcom playing on the flatscreen. Larxene turns back to Axel. "I told you. Kid owes money. I gave him some pure product to sell that he stuffed into his veins instead. And either he doesn't remember, or he's the cockiest little shit to roam the earth which is why I need you to go in the room and help Xig and Xal humble him a little, or, at the very least, jog his memory. It'll be fun."

"But, Ven doesn't do smack," Axel blurts.

"What are you talking about? What does Ventus have to do with anything?"

Axel realizes how stupid he sounds.

Larxene lets out a piercing laugh. "Are you talking about Roxas? I assure you that kid is not your dead boyfriend. He's some middle-class disappointment that Demyx brought around last year."

"Roxas," Axel repeats like he's trying to convince himself.

"Yes. His name is Roxas. Now stop acting like such a loon and uphold your end of the bargain." She points down the hall. As he gets up from the couch, Larxene grumbles, "I think next time you need some antipsychotics instead of cocaine."

* * *

Roxas has no idea what Larxene's surprise is, but he hopes it involves a needle and a spoon. She has a strict rule in her apartment; no using in the front. If you want to shoot up or light up, you go down the hall and do it in the room, and you do it quick. So, when Xigbar and Xaldin lead him into the dimly lit bedroom with the futon and plastic chairs and smoke-stained walls, the room where most of his highs originated, he is in no way suspicious.

"Have a seat," Xaldin says, motioning to the open futon. Roxas sits on the edge and it creaks beneath his weight.

"So, how've you been, squirt?" Xigbar asks him, standing beside Xaldin as they both loom over him menacingly. Inklings of dread start to settle into the pit of Roxas's empty stomach. He tries to convince himself that everything is fine, these are his friends after all, but this doesn't feel right.

"Clean," he says with a forced half-smile. He hoped they would find humor in it but they don't.

"Yeah," Xaldin says, his thick eyebrows high on his head, "Overdosing is no joke. That was a lot of dope, Roxas."

Roxas's heart is pounding so hard that his chest hurts. His fight-or-flight reflexes are begging to kick in. Realization starts to dawn on him. "I don't remember a lot from that night," he admits, but as he says it, things start coming back to him. He remembers the bad thoughts that infested his brain that night as he knelt on the bathroom floor. He remembers the tears and the difficulty he had trying to get to his vein with trembling hands. And he remembers the deal he made with Larxene, the deal he could no longer uphold.

_Oh, shit._

During his time hanging around the apartment, he has seen firsthand what happens to people who can't pay up. He knows what's coming.

Xigbar shakes his head in disdain and tuts. "You got too comfortable, squirt."

Xaldin steps closer. Roxas instinctively scoots back. "Say, Rox, how about you empty your pockets for me."

Without argument, he scrambles to pull out his wadded-up dollar bills and his bus pass. He presents it to them. By this point, his whole body is shaking. These aren't his friends. They were never his friends. These are drug dealers.

"Six bucks and a 24-hour bus pass. I'm afraid that's not enough to cover the $2,000 worth of uncut heroin you decided to waste," Xigbar laughs. "Hand over your bank card. We'll take you to an ATM."

"I-I don't have it," he stutters. "Parents took my wallet. This is all I have."

The two men look at each other. "Say, Xaldin, what do we do with punks who try to rip us off?"

"Well, Xigbar, I believe we do this." He grabs Roxas by collar of his hoodie with his left hand while he slams his fist into Roxas's jaw with his right. He lets Roxas go and he falls backwards onto the futon with a soft thud and a groan. "Man, that felt good. Sit up, Rox, I wanna do it again."

"Please," Roxas tries, "I'll pay Larxene back."

Xigbar grabs Roxas and pulls him back into a sitting position. "What was your big plan tonight, kiddo? You have no money. Do you think we're running a charity?"

To be honest, Roxas didn't have a plan. Before, he had money. He had a bi-weekly paycheck and a savings account his parents had been putting money into since he was a kid. He could pay for his habits. But now, he has nothing. Why did he come here? What did he expect? "I'm sorry," he pathetically utters, and Xaldin hits him again, this time socking him in the nose. Roxas feels the crack of his nasal bone and smells the iron of his own blood. Xigbar lets go of him and his back is reunited with the futon cushion.

"No hard feelings," Xaldin says with a chuckle, "When you pay up, we'll be friends again."

As he lays there, looking up at the ceiling in the murk, blood dribbling out his nose and down the sides of his face, Roxas can't believe he fell for an obvious set up. Like everything else in his life, he knows he deserves this. He hears the door creak open and prays it's the sound of Xaldin and Xigbar leaving, but instead he hears a new voice. The voice of the weird guy he met in the living room he told him he should be dead.

"Did you guys kill him already?" He asks. The other two laugh heartily and Roxas doesn't know if it's a joke or not. His eyes water and he wants more than anything to be home in bed.

"Nah," Xigbar says, "Larxene doesn't like when people die in her apartment. I think there's something about it in the lease."

Roxas hears footsteps and they stop at the end of the futon where his legs are hanging off. "Hey Roxas," the weird man greets. There's something strange about the way he says his name. "You got a little blood on you. Here." There's the sound of a zipper and the ruffling of clothing and suddenly something soft is dropped on his chest. A jacket.

Roxas, unsure of how to react, remains still.

"Don't worry," the man assures him, "I'm good at getting out blood stains. Clean yourself up."

Fighting gravity and the pain in his face, Roxas sits up, letting the garment fall into his lap. He sucks back a mixture of blood and snot, feeling and tasting it in the back of his throat. The redheaded man is looking at him expectantly while Xigbar and Xaldin look on with perplexed expressions, like they don't know how to react, either.

When Roxas doesn't move, the man kneels in front of him so that he's at eye level. "Different nose," he says in a low voice, like he's talking to himself, and Roxas wants to say, 'no shit, my nose is broken', but he keeps his mouth shut as the stranger examines him. "And you don't have freckles," he adds, and then he sighs sadly. "You're not him. Of course you're not him." The man takes his balled-up jacket back. All sense of tenderness leaves with it. "You're just some fucked up kid."

"You done being weird?" Xigbar impatiently asks. "Do what you want to him and get it over with. We don't have time for games, Will & Grace comes on soon."

_Do what you want to him._

Roxas tenses up at the implication and the man continues to look him in the eyes, undoubtedly noticing. "You fuck for drugs before?" He asks him and Roxas shakes his head. "But you've sucked dick for drugs." Not a question, but Roxas nods.

Xaldin smirks, having been the recipient. "If I trusted him not to bite my cock off, I'd let him work off some of that debt," he laughs. But the redheaded man doesn't find it at all funny.

"How much money do you have, Roxas?"

"Don't bother," Xigbar tells him, "He's got nothing."

"Then I guess you're fucked," he says with a shrug. "It was nice meeting you, Roxas." He stands up straight and at full height he nearly reaches the ceiling fan. He turns back to Xaldin and Xigbar. "Alright, I've had my fun. See ya later."

Roxas watches him walk out the room.

"Yikes, what a fruitcake," Xigbar says, "Axel belongs in a loony bin now." Xaldin nods in agreement. "Anyway, let's get back to business."

* * *

Axel goes back out into the living room with Larxene and Demyx. The former eyes him curiously as he sits back down on the couch with a bland expression. "Well?" She asks, "Do you feel better?"

"I didn't do anything," he admits. "Your goons had it covered. Busted his nose."

"You're soft now," she accuses. "I don't remember you being so soft."

"Can I get a gram to go? I got cash."

"Is it because he looks like Ven?"

Axel doesn't answer. Up close, the kid doesn't look like Ventus, and he certainly doesn't act like Ventus, but Axel can't deny there is something familiar about the look in the kid's big blue eyes. Ventus carried around that same exact look; the look of deep-rooted sadness, the kind of sadness that's settled in deep in the veins, perpetually being circulated through the body with no reprieve. For years, Axel tried to root out that sadness but failed, and it eats away at him that he wasn't good enough to save Ventus from himself. Axel glances back towards the hallway. He has a brief internal debate with himself. "How long are you going to let the dogs maul him?"

Larxene casually eyes her French tip acrylics. "Hm, I dunno."

"How much does he owe you?"

She looks up from her nails and raises her overplucked eyebrows as high as they'll go. "Two-grand."

Axel wedges his hand into the front pocket of his tight jeans and pulls out a stack of folded dollar bills. He licks his thumb and forefinger to separate the bills out as he counts them out loud and drops them onto Larxene's lap. "Five hundred," he ends on. "That's all I have on me. Put it towards what he owes."

She quickly gathers up the money like it'll sprout legs and escape. "Yeah, yeah, that's real sweet, but that just scrapes the surface."

"I'll get the rest to you by next week. You know I'm good for it. Let the kid go home."

Larxene can't help but laugh. "You've really lost it, Axel."

She doesn't have to tell him that. He knows he has.

"Whatever," she says, sticking the money into her robe pocket, "Guess he's your problem now. Get him out of my apartment."

Axel stands up and goes back down the hall and into the room where the kid is on the floor in the fetal position clutching his stomach. Roxas has clearly taken more abuse since he left the room, but he's not sobbing or begging, just laying silent and still like he's resigned himself. Xigbar gives him, presumably another, kick in the stomach.

"Alright, sickos, fun's over. He's mine now." Axel bends down and gathers Roxas in his arms, cradling him almost protectively. The kid lets out a soft groan but doesn't protest being held.

The two men look at each other and shrug. "Yeah, okay," Xaldin says, "We were getting bored anyway. He's not even whimpering."

Axel carefully maneuvers the boy through the doorway and down the hall. He's small and thin so it's not a difficult task. Back out in the living room, Larxene is smirking at the scene. Demyx stops strumming random chords and looks up. "Hey! What happened to Roxas?"

Axel ignores them and continues towards the front door but realizes he can't undo all the locks while holding a full-grown (if you could call him that) human being in arms. He turns around, exasperated.

"Need a hand, Casanova?" Larxene snarks.

"Is Roxas okay?" Demyx continues, and Axel wonders how concerned he can really be considering he's the one who introduced him to a bunch of sociopathic drug dealers who probably got him hooked in the first place.

"He'll be fine, just grab the door."

The night air is chilly and there's muffled bass somewhere in the distance and feral cats yowling in heat. As Axel makes his way to the parking lot with Roxas in his arms, the full realization of what he's done dawns on him. He gave Larxene five hundred bucks on behalf of some baby-faced heroin addict, with promise to give her fifteen hundred more. Axel glances down at the limp boy in his arms. He's conscious, but unmoving. His eyes are open, fixated on nothing; the lights are on but nobody's home.

"How did you get here?" He asks him. But, unsurprisingly, there's no answer. "Look, kid, I'm trying to be a good Samaritan."

"Put me down," he says in a low nasally voice. Axel obliges, gingerly setting him upright, and as soon as the kid's checked sneakers hit the pavement, he tries to bolt but Axel grabs the hood of his jacket. He makes a strangled gurgling sound as it pulls against his neck and makes him nearly lose his balance. Axel lets him go, half expecting him faceplant the asphalt or try to run again, but he doesn't, instead just pulling his hood over his head to hide his messy spikes.

"Where do you live?" He calmy asks him. "I'll take you home."

He whips around, his temperament not unlike a cornered animal. "Leave me alone," he growls.

"Listen, I just did you the biggest solid anyone will probably ever do for you. The least you can do is stop being dumb for five minutes so I can make sure you get home safe. Come on."

His stoic exterior starts to falter. "Why? So you can tell Larxene where I live? So I can be scared for the rest of my life that something is going to happen to me or my family? Over some fucking dope? No thanks." He wipes his nose on the back of his jacket sleeve and lets out a pained hiss. "Fuck!"

"Your nose is broken," Axel points out.

"Yeah, no shit."

"I paid off your debt."

The bruised and bloodied hooded boy looks up at his face and gapes. "What?"

Ignoring him, Axel gestures to the old station wagon a few feet away from them. "Your chariot awaits."

"Why did you do that?"

"Come on, Roxas," the name still feels weird on his tongue, "It's 1am and I'm tired, my buzz is wearing off. I have a paper due."

"Why?" He demands again.

"I don't know, I guess I have a soft spot for stupid punks or something. Does it really matter? Get in the car, dude."

"I'll take the city bus."

"Do I have to pick you up and carry you like a baby again?"

Roxas continues to glare, and even in the flickering streetlight overhead, Axel can see right through his tough facade. He knows the kid is wounded and scared.

"You've had a rough night," Axel sighs. "We've all had rough nights before. I'm not going to force you to let me take you home, but, considering your face is fucked and you just got done being kicked around like a soccer ball, I'd recommend you suck up what little bit of pride you've got left and let me give you a ride. It's the least you can do."

Roxas doesn't say anything but concedes defeat as he starts walking towards the car. Axel, feeling slightly smug, goes around the driver's side and undoes the manual locks. Roxas winces as he settles into the passenger seat. Once they're both in, Axel starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot before turning his head towards his new responsibility.

Before he can ask again, Roxas tells him, "Riverside and Main, in Meadow Heights."

"Nice neighborhood," Axel remarks, but he's not surprised. Larxene did mention he was some middle-class disappointment. "So, do your parents know?"

Roxas doesn't need clarification on what he's referring to. He faces the window. "Yeah," he says, "They make me go to meetings during the week."

"How long?"

"I dunno. Not even a year."

"When was the last time?"

"Are we playing fucking twenty questions or something?" Roxas snaps. "Unless you got a baggie of dope on you that you're willing to part with, don't talk to me."

Axel shakes his head in disdain but keeps his eyes focused on the road. "I can't believe I felt bad for you," he says, "You're a typical addict. You're not gonna learn from this. I mean, you didn't even learn from nearly dying. Guess you're a lost cause."

"Fuck you. Who even are you?"

"I'm Axel."

"Yeah, I know you're Axel. But who _are_ you?"

"I'm the person you now owe two grand to. But don't worry, I'm a lot more compassionate than Larxene and her goons. I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement."

Roxas doesn't respond and the rest of the ride is silent until they get to the big wooden sign at the front of his neighborhood that says 'Meadow Heights'.

"I'll walk from here," Roxas tells him.

"Oh no, I'm dropping you off at your front door. What house is yours?"

"I'll get you your fucking money," he growls, "but I'm not telling you where I live."

"I may be more compassionate and understanding than literal drug dealers, however I want you to realize that you're still very much at my mercy."

"Is that a threat?"

"No."

"You're a weirdo."

Despite everything, Axel can't help but smile, and that smile turns into chuckle which turns into full blown laughter. Maybe it's the coke, maybe it's the absolute absurdity of the situation, or maybe he's just finally lost it. He continues to drive aimlessly through the neighborhood while his battered passenger sits cross-armed, unamused.

"Tell you what," he says, "I'll make a deal with you. I'll let you walk the rest of the way home if you promise to stay clean."

"What?"

"You heard me. Stay off the dope. Clean up your act. Keep going to meetings. Et cetera."

"That's a bit hypocritical, don't you think?"

"Don't worry, paying off your debt left me too light in the pockets to finish my transaction." Axel presses the brake and lets the wagon roll to a stop. "So, how about it, Roxas. Do we have a deal?"

"Sure." He goes for the door handle but Axel reaches over and grabs his shoulder, causing him to involuntarily flinch. "What?"

"Put an ice pack on your nose and sleep on your back."

"Uh, okay."

"Take it easy. Good night."

"Yeah, good night." Roxas scrambles out the car before Axel can change his mind.

Axel watches Roxas disappear down the street in the light of his headlights before letting out a sigh. His Friday was ending the same way it started: lonely and confusing.

* * *

Roxas speed-walks along the sidewalk, ignoring the nausea and the pain in his face and stomach. He knows he needs to come up with an excuse for when his parents see his busted up face, and maybe even an excuse for where he's been if they're in the living room waiting for him to come home. He had left his phone on his nightstand before taking off, so he has no idea what awaits him. And he has no idea how he's going to come up with two-thousand dollars, short of him crying to his parents and begging for their help.

His adrenaline levels have since crashed and as he eyes the front of his house he feels nothing but exhaustion, both mental and physical. No lights are on. He's in the clear. He'll figure out solutions to his problems tomorrow.

He walks up the patio steps, carefully opens the front door he left unlocked, and tiptoes back inside, where he should've stayed all night. He kicks off his shoes and goes up to his room, where he has to stop himself from collapsing face first onto his bed out of habit.

The last thoughts he has before retiring to bed are of the little red bird from the other day, and the weird redheaded man who, as much as he hated to admit it, saved him that night.

He doesn't even wipe the dried blood off his face or get an ice pack for his nose before falling fast asleep with hopes that tomorrow will be a better day.


	2. Psychology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, okay. A transitional stage. The awkward pre-teen phase. 

Roxas tries not to look at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth with enough intensity to scrape away at his enamel with the plastic bristles. It's Monday morning and his face is still in the early stages of healing. He only has some light bruising on his jaw but the blow to the bridge of his nose led to the swelling and blackening of both eyes, making it look like he sustained a lot more damage than he actually did, and the physical pain doesn't even come close to the embarrassment of having to leave the house looking like he was used as a punching bag, or the embarrassment of having to lie to his parents about what happened to his face.

On Saturday morning he pathetically hobbled downstairs and using his best wavering victim voice prefaced with, "Mom, dad, don't be mad..."

The story he fed them went that, yes, he did leave the house Friday night, but only to go for a ride on his board to clear his head. He told them that some punks jumped him by the 7-Eleven and demanded money that he obviously didn't have before bashing his face in.

"Got punched in the face," he told his mom, his stuffy voice heavy and his boney shoulders slumped forward, "I think they broke my nose."

He wasn't winning any Grammys, but, despite his track record, his loving parents believed him. His mom gently hugged him, and his dad inspected his nose to make sure he wasn't disfigured enough to warrant a hospital visit. After all, none of them wanted to go back to the hospital. Thankfully, his nose would be just fine and heal with home treatment; his mom prescribed him over-the-counter baby Aspirin, a forehead kiss, and a bag of frozen peas. She also filed a report with the non-emergency police line, passing along the vague description of the non-existent attackers.

As for the defiled ceramic lamb-additional evidence of his sins-Roxas tucked both body and head beside the dresser it was once perched on, positioning it in such a way that it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume it had fallen off and decapitated itself; an accidental death instead of a murder. He sprinkled some spare change around the body for good measure.

Roxas spits a mixture of whitening toothpaste, saliva, and blood into the bathroom sink and watches it swirl down the drain as he mentally prepares for another morning of mandatory bullshit. Like usual, he forgoes the comb in favor of donning his hood and trudges downstairs where his mom is awake, dressed, and making her coffee in the kitchen as she hums a soft melody to herself.

"You're up early," he blandly comments as he walks to the refrigerator.

The coffee machine dispenses the steaming hot coffee into her travel mug as she turns towards him and smiles. "Good morning, Rox," she cheerily greets, much too cheery for 6:30am. "I'm driving you to your meeting this morning, so I'm getting an early start to my day."

"You don't have to do that," he grumbles into the fridge. In one fluid movement rehearsed many times over the years, he grabs the carton of orange juice, twists off the cap and takes a swig. He grimaces at the putrid taste of minty orange that lingers on his tongue.

"Get a glass," she says. But he's already turned himself off to it and stuffs the carton back into the fridge like it's the enemy. She shakes her head in disdain but doesn't harp on it, there's no point. "I'm driving you because I don't want those boys messing with you again," she tells him. "Are you ready to go?"

Roxas presses his lips into a hard, thin line. He doesn't necessarily like the walk, but being subjected to early morning car rides with his mom is a worse alternative. He doesn't want what little bit of independence he has left being stripped from him like everything else has. "I'll be fine," he grumpily insists. "It's not that dark out and I think convenience store hoodlums sleep in. Besides, I don't even walk that way."

She's not taking no for an answer. She pours the cream and sweetener into her travel mug and slaps the lid on. They've had this argument before, when he first started attending. From the beginning she's wanted an excuse to drive him to meetings that didn't boil down to flat-out admitting she didn't trust him, and now she has it, she won.

Roxas sighs and goes to jam his sockless feet into his beat-up slip-ons by the front door. He's reminded of his morning rides to school. Naminé, the over-achiever that she is, attended a different school than he did after being accepted into an International Baccalaureate program when they were thirteen. For the next five years, dad took her to her good school and mom took him to his districted school, and in the quiet car rides Roxas couldn't help but feel like he was a disappointment due to his mediocre-at-best grades, lack of talent, and the sins of seventh grade summer that lingered in the back of his mind and left him feeling wretched. Those car rides were in shame. This car ride would be in shame, too. Just another reminder of what a failure he is.

Roxas's entire body still aches. His stomach is bruised, his pride is wounded, and going to his Narcotics Anonymous meeting after what happened at Larxene's apartment feels akin to scampering back with his tail between his legs. In the car, his mom nags him to buckle his seatbelt before turning on the radio to catch the final chorus of a Dionne Warwick song that fades out into a morning traffic report. Roxas leans back in the seat and closes his tender eyelids while a velvety-voiced man warns of a fender bender by the freeway on-ramp.

They don't share any words in the eight-minute drive to the plaza. She pulls up to the storefront church where the droopy-eyed addicts are already loitering outside with their cigarettes and cheap gas station coffee, waiting restlessly to sit in a circle for an hour and tell sob stories about how drugs ruined their lives.

"I'll be back in a little bit to pick you up," she tells him. Roxas gets out of the car without much an acknowledgement and trudges up the curb towards the door and doesn't look back. He lets himself in and grabs the seat closest to the exit. He's earlier than usual thanks to his mom's taxi service so he takes out his phone and idly pokes around while the chairs around him slowly fill up. He's got about fifteen minutes to kill.

Last night, Olette sent him a picture message that he avoided opening, but he opens it now and it's an old photo from high school. It's the four of them, the summer of sophomore year, and they're on the beach standing shoulder-to-shoulder in bathing suits. He's in the center, Hayner's arm around his shoulder, Olette's arm around his waist, and Pence has his stubby fingers stuck up behind his head like bunny ears. He can't help but crack a small smile at the memory of their little beach trip. It was a good day. An easy day. And looking back, he didn't appreciate it enough at the time.

Roxas was contemplating responding when he suddenly feels a presence looming over him.

"That's a nice picture," a familiar voice comments. "Are those your friends?"

Roxas whips his head around.

Standing behind his chair, with a smirk and a cocked hip, is the weird redheaded man from Friday night. The man peeled him up from the floor and made sure he got home safe, who made him agree to stay clean for the privilege of keeping his home address a secret, who claimed to have paid off his debt to Larxene. The man he now owes two-thousand dollars.

"What—" Roxas starts but Axel interrupts with, "Wow, you look rough."

"Why—" Roxas tries again only to be cut off by, "Is this seat taken?"

Without waiting for an answer, Axel casually takes the folding chair next to him. More people trickle in around them. Roxas pockets his phone and faces forward, trying his best to avoid looking nonplussed when he's actually panicking and assuming Axel is here to shake him down or threaten him or both, and it is too early in the morning for the consequences of his actions.

"Wasn't this a party store at one point?" Axel nonchalantly asks him after glancing around the room. "I vaguely remember coming here with some mates in junior high and getting a fuck ton of balloons just so we could suck out the helium and make prank calls."

Roxas doesn't acknowledge his anecdote and is instead opting to ignore his existence as if that will make him go away. It's the same tactic he'd use with Seifer when they were kids and it never actually worked, but Roxas's problem solving skills are on par with his decision-making skills.

Axel leans towards him and furrows his overplucked eyebrows. "Hey, don't ignore me," he says, "I come in peace."

Roxas aggressively faces him. "Stalking doesn't seem particularly peaceful," he snarls.

"I'm not stalking you. This is the only NA meeting in the area, and I was in the area. I didn't expect to see you here, especially since I figured you wouldn't give our deal another thought after you darted off." He shrugs lackadaisically and leans back against his chair, putting his arms behind his head. "I guess I was wrong. Maybe you're not such a lost cause after all."

"I've never seen you around here before, this seems less like coincidence and more like stalking," Roxas accuses. "This city isn't small and I'm sure there's plenty of drug addict meetings in your neck of the woods. There's an opioid crisis."

"I don't shit where I sleep. And, like I said, I was already in the area. Besides, I live over by the college, I go to school there, and I really don't want to hear a bunch of freshmen still living off the 'Just Say No' rhetoric crying about how they popped an Adderall to help them study."

"You're a student at Kingdom?"

"Yep. Psych major. On scholarship." He wiggles his brows. "Impressed?"

Roxas scoffs. "Impressed by some community college psychology student? No, not particularly. The only kids who go to Kingdom are the kids not good enough for anything better or the ones who are too afraid to leave this piece of shit city." He thinks of his sister-the golden child, the art prodigy-who belongs to the latter group and turned down acceptance from better universities all around the west coast just so she could stay close to home while working on her undergrad degree. She always made it seem like she did it to stay close to mom and dad, but, in reality, she was too soft for the real world.

Axel smirks, not at all offended by Roxas's blasé response. "Since you're so much better than us community college kids, what is it you do? Besides smack, of course."

"Go fuck yourself," Roxas spits before facing back forward.

"Oh, c'mon, don't dish it if you can't take it. I'm teasing. Would it kill you to ease up a little? I told you already, I mean no harm. I'm just a nice, easygoing guy who's trying to better himself. Is that such a sin?"

"Anyone who considers themselves 'a nice guy' most likely isn't."

Axel lets out an incredulous laugh. "What cruel thing have I done to you? I've been nothing but nice to you since I met you, Roxas."

Roxas harrumphs and ignores him.

To Roxas's relief, the meeting leader comes in and greets the room of addicts the same way he does every morning-with mild condescension and displaced enthusiasm. He drops off his bag and takes his throne at the front of the room, herbal tea in hand, and the procession begins. Many people volunteer their stories, as usual. One man talks about how God spoke to him in a dream to get him to stay off crack and another talks about how abusing pain killers cost him his marriage. A woman stands up and says she used to be a veterinary tech before losing her job after being caught stealing dog tranquilizers.

As they go around the room, Axel holds up his hand to share.

"You're a new face," the meeting leader notes. "Welcome. What brings you here?"

He stands, towering over the circle of chairs. "Yeah, hi, the name's Axel. A-X-E-L. I'm twenty-five and I use illicit substances to cope and whatnot, so I figured I'd come get purified and begin my journey to sobriety."

Everyone, except Roxas, murmurs out a 'hi, Axel'.

"It's nice to meet you, Axel," the meeting leader says. "Is there anything you'd like to share with the group? Any stories you'd like to tell?"

"Sure. So, uh, last Friday I was planning on using drugs. Cocaine, to be specific. I drove to my old dealer's place. While I was there, I met some baby-faced heroin addict and he got the shit beat out of him for owing money."

Roxas glowers down at his shoes, feeling his cheeks get warm.

"I felt bad for the kid, ya'know," he continues, "watching some of the consequences of his addiction. He didn't seem like a _bad_ kid, just a kid who went down a bad path due to drugs. I know this story isn't about me specifically, but it made me realize how evil drugs are, and so, here I am."

"Excellent story, Axel, thank you. It's always tragic to see someone succumb to their choices. However, it's good that you were able to see the consequences of addiction through someone else because we're often blind to it when it happens to us. I pray that kid finds the strength to take the right path in life. Drugs are never the answer."

At this point, Roxas is silently fuming. Axel sits back down, seemingly bemused with himself. When the leader moves on to the next person, Axel leans towards Roxas and whispers, "What'd ya think? Good enough for a movie adaptation?"

Roxas, again, doesn't acknowledge him. And he doesn't for the rest of the meeting. The second it's adjourned, Roxas bolts out his chair and out the door. For the first time in a long time, he's happy to see his mom's Kia idling in a parking spot. He's about to cross the distance between the storefront and the parking lot when Axel calls after him, "Hey, wait!"

Roxas turns around, a scowl on his lips. "What do you want?"

"Give me your hand."

"Wh—" Before the word can leave his mouth, Axel grabs Roxas's left arm and forces his hand from his hoodie pocket. He takes his hand in his, palm-to-palm, dorsal side up. Roxas can't help but notice how warm and large Axel's hand is. Transfixed, he looks down at where they're joined, his brain incapable of response, as Axel reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a red pen. He uncaps it with his teeth, holding the plastic between his incisors, as he scribbles along thin skin stretched tight over Roxas's metacarpal bones.

It's over before Roxas can fully process what just happened. Axel lets him go and caps the pen before nodding at him with a playful grin. He goes his separate way, towards the back parking lot where presumably his old station wagon is parked, without another word. Still frozen in place, Roxas looks down at his hand. Seven digits are scratched onto his skin in red ink.

* * *

Axel gets into his car and immediately goes for the pack of Reds in his glove compartment. He cranks down the manual window and lights his cigarette with one of the few brightly colored Bics scattered around the front seat. As he takes a drag, he wonders what the fuck is wrong with him. Why is he going through such lengths for a kid he doesn't even know? Paying off his drug debt, attending NA meetings to make sure he's staying clean, giving him his phone number as if he'll actually call or text. Axel sighs out smoke.

Of course he _knows_ why he's doing it. He's a self-proclaimed self-aware psych major, after all. Not that it takes a genius to recognize that it's just Roxas's resemblance to his dead fiancé that lures him in.

Ventus is dead and never coming back and there is not a day when that realization doesn't make his heart hurt. But seeing Roxas, with the same messy blonde spikes and sad blue eyes and short legs and perpetual pout, it's almost like seeing Ventus again. And, in a way, it's comforting. And it's fun. Exciting. Who needs drugs when you're chasing ghosts?

He smokes his cig down to the filter and chucks it out the window.

He starts his car and begins the twenty-minute drive to Kingdom after texting Xion to meet him at the bodega by the campus after her morning anthropology course.

With an hour to kill, Axel loiters by defunct payphones outside the corner store with a can of sugar-free Red Bull in one hand and another cigarette in the other. Xion walks up to him and tuts at his chain smoking. Ignoring her judgement, he gestures to a plastic bag on the ground by his foot and she bends down to pick it up. Inside is a bottle of the gas station Frappuccino that she likes to drink.

"Mocha," she beams, "Thank you."

"I figured you could use some caffeine, too."

She pops open her coffee and takes a sip, letting out sigh of contentment. "So good," she says. "How do they make these things so good?"

"A shit ton of sugar, I imagine. Or maybe crack." He sips his own drink.

With a small chuckle, she leans against the side of one of the payphones. "So, what's up, buttercup? Did you have a good weekend?"

Axel throws his cigarette down and steps on it with his boot. "On Friday, I saw a ghost," he casually tells her.

"Oh, yeah?" She plays along, "What kind of ghost? Like a spooky 'The Conjuring' ghost or like a 'Casper' kind of deal?"

"Pacman ghost," he says. "Y'know, the little neon-colored ones."

"Yeah, grandpa, I know what Pacman is." She rolls her eyes. "So, what class do you have this morning?"

"Stat-anal."

"Am I supposed to know what that means?"

"Statistical analysis," he elaborates. "God, I'm tired. Carry me to campus?"

"Axel, I'm 4'11 and I have the upper body strength of a toddler with muscular dystrophy. How about you carry me?"

Axel's mind immediately goes back to Roxas. How he held him against his chest as he carried him out of Larxene's apartment. How small and vulnerable he felt. How his face, though battered and bloody, looked almost cherubic.

How small and cold his hand was when he wrote his phone number on the back of it.

Axel reaches into his pocket for his cell and instantly lights up when he sees a text notification, but that excitement quickly wanes when he unlocks his phone and sees it's a message from an unknown number—undoubtedly Patchy or Dreadlocks or Larxene herself—reminding him of his newly acquired secondhand debt. He'll have to see about selling his plasma or something. Or maybe an organ.

"Everything okay?" Xion asks him, noticing his frown and furrowed brow as he looks down at his phone.

"Yeah. We really only need one kidney, right?"

* * *

About a week passes with no incident.

It's early Sunday morning and against Roxas's best wishes, he's awake. Morning meetings and midday naps has left his sleep schedule in disarray so being wide awake at 5am on a weekend isn't an uncommon occurrence. He sits up in bed and his spine protests. Back when he was younger, he was in such good shape—playing on his school's baseball team, regularly going to the skate park with Hayner, doing pushups in his bedroom—but smack and a lack of regular meals have left him feeble.

Axel never returned to the morning meetings after that Monday, and Roxas was equal parts relieved and equal parts disappointed. Axel is very kind to him, almost suspiciously so, but Roxas knows not to let his guard down again. He knows he has to figure out a way to pay him back so that he can forget about the ordeal once and for all...until the next time he undoubtedly succumbs and racks up a drug debt in the quadruple digits. Old habits die hard.

Roxas picks up his phone from the nightstand and looks at his lock screen. It's the picture Olette sent him. He misses his friends, his _real_ friends. He misses Hayner's friendly jeers and skirt-chasing antics, he misses Pence being a goofy know-it-all and telling him fun facts like a Snapple cap, and he misses Olette's unwavering kindness and den mother disposition. They were truly the best group of friends anyone could ask for and he was lucky to have them. But he threw them away and there's no coming back from that.

Of course, in all the years that followed, he never told them what happened, never told them why he was suddenly so broken and fucked up, how he went from being just a regular kid to being a statistic. He never told anyone. Not his parents, not Naminé, not his aunt and uncle. He just stuffed it down deep within himself and bottled it up until he burst. And Roxas can still feel it. It lingers beneath his skin, a constant reminder that makes him want to peel away his flesh until he's nothing but bones and sinew.

He's so damaged, both inside and out. And he doesn't know if he'll ever get back on track. Technically, he's clean now, but not for lack of trying to get fucked up beyond self-recognition. Technically, he's on the right track by going to his meetings, but not of his own volition. He's standing on a precipice between two points; on one side is redemption, getting his life back together, working through his trauma, and the other side is continuing down the easier path of self-destruction. Roxas knows what the correct choice is, but he feels incapable of anything but this; slowly wasting and rotting away in his room.

_"Maybe you're not such a lost cause after all,"_ a voice echoes in his head. Axel's voice.

"What do you know?" Roxas says aloud into his dark room, "You don't know anything about me."

But the question arises: does Roxas even want anyone to know him? Does Roxas even know himself?

His loneliness and curiosity gets the best of him and he texts the number that was messily scrawled on his hand a few days ago. He had saved the number in his phone before scrubbing the ink off.

'Why did you help me?' He types.

After sending the message he stares at the screen, hoping for instant gratification and letting out a huff when he doesn't get it. Axel doesn't have his number but he shouldn't have any question about the unknown number texting him given the context of the message. Unless, of course, he made a habit of this. And the thought that Axel just went around saving other people left Roxas feeling oddly bitter.

Roxas resigns himself to the fact he wasn't getting a response and tries to go back to sleep. He tosses and turns for the next few hours until his mom lightly knocks on his bedroom door to ask him if he wanted her to make him some breakfast, which, like usual, he declined.

After ruminating, Roxas decides the proper response to Axel's existence is anger.

Who does Axel think he is; interfering with his life and taking it upon himself to get involved?

Roxas is sure that once the dust settled with Larxene and co. that he could've haggled his way out of debt and back into their good graces, even if it meant sucking off Xaldin or selling addies to college kids for Xigbar or rubbing Larxene's feet for the rest of eternity. But now he's stuck indebted to a stranger whose true intentions he can't discern, who shows up and disappears and curls his 2's like a middle school girl. Roxas clenches his fists and concludes that Axel is just some psycho with a hero complex who gets off on being in control.

And Roxas knows all about people who get off on being in control.

Once the sun is high in the sky, Roxas decides to get out of bed, not for any particular reason aside from boredom. He pisses, brushes his teeth, takes a hot shower, and finds some crumpled up jeans on his bedroom floor that didn't smell completely putrid to pull on. Like most his jeans now, they sag off hips. He used to have no problem walking around his house shirtless but now he pulls a wrinkled t-shirt out from a drawer and pulls it over himself to hide his ribcage.

Downstairs, his mom is reorganizing a bookshelf in the living room with help from Naminé who came over since she apparently had nothing better to do. They're sitting on the floor and crooning over a photo album that is probably filled to the brim with pictures of them when they were kids, dressed up in their little outfits and deliberately posed.

"Roxas, look!" Naminé calls out after hearing him shuffle down the stairs. "Remember when we went to the zoo and got to feed a giraffe on the safari ride?"

"Nope," he dismisses as he continues past them to the kitchen.

"It licked your hair and made it all spiky in the back," his mom adds. "That's where your cowlick came from."

"Giraffe-lick," Naminé giggles.

When he doesn't respond to their jokes and antics, they take the hint and go back to talking amongst themselves.

Roxas almost feels bad. Almost. But before the guilt can settle in and fester, his phone vibrates. He eagerly takes it out his front pocket to see who messaged him even though he already knows who it is.

'You remind me of someone I used to know,' the message reads.

He quickly replies, 'What the fuck does that mean'.

'Long story. I'll see you tomorrow, Roxas'.

He frowns at the screen.

* * *

There's a hint of a smile on Axel's face when he sets his phone back down on the host podium. His coworker, a kind brunette waitress, notices as she's gathering up crayons and a coloring sheet next to him and comments, "You look especially giddy today, Ax."

"It's Sunday," he tells her, "You know I love Sundays. The elderly church crowd really gets my horses running. Maybe today's the day I score a G-MILF."

"Gross," she chuckles as she walks back into the dining area.

With a bored yawn, he bends forward and puts his elbows on the podium. There's absolutely nothing fun about being a host at a chain restaurant but it was at least a step up from dishwasher, which was a position occupied by a man who 'accidentally' killed his wife back in 1974 and was fresh released from prison on good behavior. All the servers were young and cute and nice, but Axel never put in the effort to make friends with any of them. He'd crack jokes and say dumb shit to make them laugh, but he knows the only reason they know his name is because of the name tag above the breast pocket of his work shirt.

But, that doesn't matter. What matters is that Roxas actually reached out to him.

After last Monday, Axel made the executive decision to stop toying around with his dead fiancé's doppelganger and instead focus on school and making enough money to escape this lousy city. He wanted their debt settled, but he wasn't going to hold his breath for it, and either way he figured he would sleep better at night knowing he helped someone, even if it was for less-than-earnest reasons. Axel figures god doesn't split hairs.

He was perfectly content moving on from his brief fascination. That is, if he never heard back. But Roxas messaging him, even if nearly a week later, shows there is a mutual fascination. It shows that Roxas has been thinking about him.

Axel chews at the inside of his bottom lip. Roxas is clearly a directionless fuck up, which means it'll be easy for him to get what he wants, and all he wants is to feel like Ventus is still here. If exploiting some messed up drug addict he met by happenstance is the way to do it, then who is he to argue? Whether it be god or fate or the influence of Ventus himself from beyond the grave, he met Roxas for a reason.

A family of 4 walks through the front in their Sunday best and Axel stands up straight and puts on his best toothy smile, greeting them with wholehearted enthusiasm like he isn't a selfish piece of shit who's earned himself a one-way ticket hell.

"Table or booth?" He asks them.


End file.
